Homecoming
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: House comes home. The missing scene from 'Broken'. The way it should've been. In our world Lydia was nothing more than another horrible hallucination. Warning: Implied Slash. We own nothing but a taste for spring rolls.


House limped heavily along the corridor, stopped in front of the door and set down his duffle bag.

His thigh seemed to hurt more now than it had in detox and he absently rubbed it. It always hurt more when he was nervous.

He raised a hand to knock at the door and found that it was shaking.

House clenched his fingers into a tight fist to control the tremors and looked up and down the empty hallway.

A little voice in his head pointed out that it still wasn't too late to turn around. No one ever need know he was even there.

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door made House startle slightly; he was unaware of his own movements.

He heard muffled movements from within and a muted voice saying "Be right there."

Then the door was flung open and there stood Wilson, an unmistakable look of surprise on his face.

"House!" he exclaimed in a strangled sort of voice, then, unexpectedly, threw his arms around House and drew him into a warm embrace.

House's hands hung limply at his sides as he breathed in the welcoming scent of Wilson that he had missed so much during his time at Mayfield.

House had considered asking the porters to change brands of laundry detergent, simply so he could be reminded of Wilson, but after that fateful phone call, he quickly changed his mind.

Besides, essence of Wilson was particularly difficult to capture. House would know. He'd tried.

Wilson pulled back slightly, but still gripped House's upper arms, as he looked curiously into the hall, as if he expected doctors in white coats to be running behind, chasing after House.

"They let you out?" Wilson asked, and House was dismayed to hear the note of uncertainty in his voice.

He bit back the sarcastic retort that sprang immediately to his lips and nodded instead.

"Can I come in or not?"

House didn't wait for an answer, but instead picked up his bag and shouldered past Wilson, immediately regretting the loss of contact it created. He could still feel the warmth of Wilson's hands on his arms.

He tossed his duffle into the corner, then flopped down on Wilson's couch, aiming for nonchalance.

"Got anything to eat? I am so sick of hospital food."

Wilson ignored the question and sat in the chair facing the couch, studying House's face with intent brown eyes.

"Why didn't you call me?" Wilson asked softly, brows furrowed, "I would've picked you up."

House thought about this a few moments.

The truth was, it was childish retaliation. Normally, that wouldn't have bothered House in the least, but seeing as how he was supposed to be the 'new and improved' House, he was reluctant to admit that to Wilson.

"I just found out myself." House lied.

Wilson cocked his head, "You still could've called."

House shrugged and looked away.

"You hung up on me." House said, barely above a whisper.

He turned back to face Wilson just in time to see his face crumple.

"House. I-"

"I called you. I needed you. You hung up on me. My best friend. My-" House broke off, unable to complete the sentence.

"I had to, House," Wilson said, the pleading unmistakable in his voice, "You have to understand. I tried to tell you that, you weren't listening. I did it for your own good."

House snorted in disbelief.

"My own good?" he asked, the uncertainty within him turning to rage, "And you didn't come and see me _for my own good_?"

Wilson got up and began pacing, wringing his hands.

"I wanted to..." he began, then faltered.

House stood up and faced him. He wanted to be on level ground with Wilson for this.

"Seven weeks I was in there, Wilson. By myself. _Seven weeks_. Where were you?" he heard the catch in his throat and swallowed hard against it.

Never would he cry in front of Wilson.

Wilson had his hands on House again, forcing those blue eyes to look at him.

"I wanted to, House, I really, really did. I even drove out there twice, before turning around and coming back home. And it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I did it because....because I-"

"What?!" House spat, "Tell me what was so important that you couldn't come visit me? Not even once!"

Wilson sat down, and urged House, with a gentle tug on his arms, to do the same.

They sat on the couch, their knees touching and Wilson not letting go of House's arm.

"Because I knew if I went," Wilson began, talking softly and slowly, "If I went, House, and you asked me to bring you Vicodin, or get another license plate, or...or smuggle you home under my coat, I would have."

Wilson stopped, licked his lips and continued.

"After I hung up on you, I reconsidered. I was on the verge of doing what you asked me to. And I realized, I couldn't. No matter how much you wanted me to, no matter how much _I_ wanted to, I couldn't. Because you wouldn't get better if I did. And it really _was_ the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

House was looking down at his feet, the lump back in his throat, and he was determined not to let Wilson see this weakness.

But Wilson put a finger under House's chin and lifted his head back up.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, House. I just wanted you better. I wanted you _back_."

A tiny smile played in the corner of House's mouth as he lifted his shoulder into that defiant little shrug again.

"You can make it up to me," he said, his eyes twinkling, "My psychiatrist says I need to find a roommate..."


End file.
